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Scoria
This character belongs to Soi-ke. “We may not be our hopes, but we are more than our mistakes.” ---- }}|display: none;| |}} font-weight:normal;border:1px solid #40150a; color:#ffc6a6; background:#76270c;" | Background Information |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Creator | soi-ke |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Attribute | self-reflection, rediscovery |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Element | embers |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Colour | green |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Animal | bullfrog |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Alignment | neutral good |- ! colspan="2" style=" }|display: none;| |}} font-weight:normal;border:1px solid #40150a; color:#ffc6a6; background:#76270c;" |'Character Information' |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Age | 55(hy) |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Gender | male |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Orientation | homosexual |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Tribe | mudwing |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Occupation | grief counselor - florist - knight (formerly) - writes poems and paints but is pretty terrible at it |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Residence | Possibility |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Birthplace | near the Diamond Spray Delta |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Relatives | sibs (two deceased prior to the war, the rest during it) |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Allies | his support group - most of his neighbours are fond of him |- style="border-top: 1px solid #c9987e; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Enemies | does not consider anyone an enemy himself - some IceWings hate him for the things he did during the war |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Likes | quiet walks by the river - gardening and sewing - artistic pursuits - talking with people who understand him - sharing wisdoms and parables - his new job, and the warm feeling that accompanies it |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Aversions | the glorification of war - the violence seemingly inherent to Pyrrhian politics - being forced to tell war stories - loud noises and chaos - small spaces - fire |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Powers and Abilities | immensely strong and tough-scaled - fire breath, but is out of practice - a prodigal fighter, but is out of practice - principled empathy and acceptance - wisdom - skilled botanist |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Weapons | natural MudWing abilities - an old pollaxe that hasn't been touched in ages |- style="border-top: 1px solid #40150a; border-bottom: 1px solid #40150a;" | Ships | Requin |- |} |} Appearance An utter behemoth of a dragon, Scoria towers over even most other MudWings. His body is powerful and low-set in a distinctly crocodilian manner, the mud dragon’s rough-edged scales doing little to conceal his muscular build. His limbs are short and undeniably strong, crowned with large, sand-coloured talons. His frame is long and encircling and oh so terrifyingly vast, with a lengthened neck and serpentine, cresting tail. And his head is a horrific visage of cruelty, flat and long-jawed, with rows of crushing, shearing teeth and an pseudo-ruff of spines the colour of naked bone. His underbelly, snout and the back of his limbs are coated in jagged plates of pale terracotta. They are shadowed by his main scales, tough, chitinous armour of a brown earthy hue and orangish-red lamina. His wings are a rich brown, with membranes of pinkish skin. When describing Scoria, monstrous is the word that springs to the minds of most, much to his dismay. Despite the fact that he’s made every attempt to change, despite the kindly brightness that now lights his blue eyes, the world still sees him as it always has. In appearance at least, the MudWing will always call to mind the worst version of himself - a butcher-knight, paws bloodied with unwashable ichor. Cruel. Unforgivable. Personality In his advanced age, Scoria has become a sort of archetypal hermit. Zealotry and anger has mellowed into sagely wisdom and an air of world-weariness. The former knight has truly seen the entire world, both the best and worst of it. And he has become so much more content, canny and tired for it. Scoria isn’t one to talk without good reason, and he isn’t one to overshare when he does. It usually requires a good bit of prodding to get anything out of a conversation with him. Even then, he isn’t one to riposte with a snappy or witty response. No, he’ll think over his words carefully, look absentmindedly at the sky for a few moments, and respond with a polite insight. He isn’t dull-witted, so much as someone who prefers to think things through. After all, feverish, inhibition-lacking dragons seem to have been behind the lion’s share of great societal failings. His daily behaviours are conducted with a lethargic grace to them. The MudWing has all the haste of a dragon who understands that nothing need be rushed. He doesn’t really get anxious or worried anymore. Rather, he acknowledges issues and challenges, thoroughly ponders them, and makes his way through them in his own time. One might even say he’s lazy, but truthfully he’s just not very busy these days. His newfound time has healed the wounds of his wasted youth, to some extent at least. Scoria’s humble post-war existence has given him the opportunity to pursue arts and interests beyond violence. He has passionately taken up the brush, but remains an incompetent painter. With similarly doomed enthusiasm, he has begun to write snippets of moons-awful poetry. However, the MudWing has seen success in his new hobby of gardening, and has become quite the talented botanist in but a few short years. By heart, Scoria is a wistful, creator spirit who takes great joy in making and sustaining beautiful things - it just took him over four decades of life to realize it. But while they do bless him with some degree of happiness, his few pastimes do little to lighten the leaden remorse that weighs on his soul. For it was just over a dozen short years ago that Scoria was Scoria the Butcher, the cruelest knight of the Mud Kingdom. It was just over a dozen short years ago that the MudWing terrorized the tundras of the Ice Kingdom, tales of his actions striking fear into the hearts of hatchlings and full-grown soldiers alike. Scoria has since defined his life around chasing even the most meagre scraps of redemption. The once-great warrior is now a devout pacifist, and tries to avoid confrontations altogether if such is possible. He is very diplomatic when he wants to be, and his kindly, wise demeanour gives him the ethos required to reason with those that others would dismiss as utterly without reason. Scoria’s soul is one that is truly fearful and despising of war, in its myriad of shapes and forms. The War of Succession in particular wrenched away so many lives, and left behind so many mourners. By tending to their anguish and sorrow, by alleviating the horrors of a war he propagated and supported and embodied, the MudWing can make himself just the slightest bit more worthy of absolution. He can still see the blood on his claws when he stares at them long enough - he knows that he is a murderer, and nothing will ever change that. He is in no position to help those that never got to grow old, and they’re in no position to forgive him. And for all this, Scoria sees his service to the lamenting and the grieving as more than just a job. More than even a passion. It is a duty. But his work is also a passion, and one of few things he takes pride in. While working as a grief counselor, Scoria feels genuinely comfortable and content with who he is and what he is doing. The thoughts stirring and swirling in his mind become more fluid, more profound, his words gain a certain grace to them, and his burning sense of empathy is displayed to all the world. Queens, moons and fate be damned - this is what he was truly meant to do. Relationships Requin This foul-mouthed SeaWing is Scoria’s partner, in spite of the great divides in their personalities. They have a jovial, trusting relationship, stemming from emotional openness and shared experiences. The SeaWing feels comfortable being honest with his fears and worries in front of Scoria, while the MudWing deeply enjoys talking to Requin and the warmth of his company. Schema Remembering how she helped out Scoria long ago, the MudWing and his partner allow the strange SkyWing gravedigger to stay at their place when she’s in town. Scoria doesn’t envy Schema’s high-energy lifestyle, but understands the importance of her job. He is very supportive of the adventuring SkyWing and has great respect for her. Köppen While most IceWings harbour some resentment towards Scoria, Köppen is a rare exception. The baker has become a good friend of the MudWing, owing to a situation a few years back where Scoria saved his sister’s life. Out of a sense of overwhelming gratitude, the IceWing frequently sends him free pastries and bread. Scoria, though appreciative, insists that his gifts are unnecessary. But Köppen simply refuses to hear it. History |-| 1. Hatchling Monster = Scoria took his first life a few moments after he was born. A bigwings, Scoria emerged from a massive, pale egg before the rest of his clutch. He was of a monstrous size even then, possessing strength unprecedented for a newborn. He could stand the moment he broke through the eggshell, and stood tall, staring up at the soldier who supervised his hatching. She was smiling at him, an unnerving mixture of pride and malice on her battle-scarred face. Later in life, she would describe to Scoria the look on his blue eyes as he opened them for the first time - darkly determined, burning with murderous intent. The moons had given him the eyes of a dauntless, unquestioning killer. He was the perfect soldier for a pointless, bloody war. The second of the clutch to emerge was his physical opposite. The hatchling was small and feeble, slippery and dexterous. Not a soldier. Scoria’s instincts kicked in the moment he saw his half-freed sibling. He walked over without a second thought and broke the eggshell easily with his great might, smashing it into pieces. Then there was blood. Then his brother was dead. In a couple of years, Scoria’s supervisor and eventual mentor would tell him a different story of his younger sibling’s death. She would tell him that he had recognized weakness in his troop, and snuffed it out without hesitation. She would tell him that he smiled when he killed his own blood, overjoyed at the prospect of a job well done. ---- He was more careful with aiding the rest of his siblings. The hatchling didn’t understand at first what he just did, only that it wasn’t supposed to happen. In a few minutes, the five siblings were sitting around, huddling together for warmth in the cold, dark night. They were together, without wars and death and bloodshed weighing upon their souls. And there were stars overhead. Bright, pretty ones too. It was a perfect night. The universe may have been cold and cruel. The universe may not have cared a lick about the newborn MudWing. But the universe also gave him four people who did right off the bat, so, it wasn’t all bad. Scoria thinks about that night a lot. What if everything didn’t go wrong? What if the war hadn’t happened? What if they all got a chance to live, to grow old together in a peaceful world? But they didn’t, did they? They all died eventually. Scoria did too, in a way. |-| 2. Dragonet, Knight = Despite being a bigwings, a leader from hatching, Scoria was never in control. His supervisors would impart upon him a plethora of violent tendencies and a dedication to brutality. They taught him the principles of a killer, and he would in turn teach these lessons to his troop. Though it was a time of peace, he and his siblings trained for war constantly. They learnt to butcher dragons as easily as they tore up prey. They, a herd of lowborns, were raised to literacy for the sole purpose of reading military treatises, enriching their minds with the more subtle faculties of conflict. The troop was thoroughly indoctrinated into a cult of sorts - one of xenophobia and bloodthirst. They were one of many peasant militias formed in preparation for the coming storm, intended to die far from home and spare some haughty nobles the same fate. There were no protests from Scoria nor his siblings in the first few years. They had yet to learn right from wrong, and had not the ability to see the horror of what they were being asked to do. One brother never did learn. He was arrogant, yet at the same time blindly obeyed the whims of their supervisors. Even when Scoria and his siblings began to question what they were being taught, reasoning that their worldly experiences contradicted the militant, warlike vision of their superiors, he remained painfully, obtusefully, stubbornly zealous. Scoria does not know where they went wrong with him, why he so craved violence and the pain of others. On the eve of their adulthoods, the doomed brother made a grab for power. Just as the sun rose, he challenged Scoria’s authority as bigwings, accusing him of weakness and incompetence, and demanded a fight. Scoria accepted. The moons favoured Scoria - the larger, stronger, more skilled of the two. He ducked a stream of fire, before lending his formidable might to a rib-cracking tackle. Naught but a clawful of seconds later, he had the doomed brother’s head pinned beneath his paw. He was about to let the defeated, humbled dragon up, when the icy voice of their supervisor burrowed its way into his head. She sounded out in a sinister whisper. “Kill him.” Scoria found it surprisingly easy to say no. He helped his brother up and steadied him, their brief spat easily forgiven and forgotten. The two turned indignantly, intending to voice their anger with their mentor’s murderous intent. In a single instant, she lashed out with a long, sharp spear, and the doomed brother fell dead as Scoria stared in shock. He and the rest of his troop were punished severely for his “failure”. Furious, their supervisor had them starved, beaten, and confined to a small earthen prison for a month. Not a word was spoken between them for most of this time. Rather, they exchanged looks of grief and sorrow, and huddled together in the inky blackness. The day of their release, Scoria gave his sibs a single order - never entertain the slightest disobedience, or their supervisor would kill them for it. ---- They completed their training in but a few more short years, just in time for the SandWing War of Succession. For the merit he demonstrated throughout his training, as well as his troop’s exemplary performance during the first battle of the war, Scoria was deemed a knight of the MudWing kingdom by royal decree. He accepted this apparent honour without a hint of a smile. Even as their well-disciplined, gifted troop made a name for themselves as skilled warriors, they took little joy in their accomplishments. Rather, they hoped and dreamed, foolishly perhaps, that they would all make it through the war alive. |-| 3. The War = The first five years of the war had gone smoothly, all things considered. Their supervisor had perished barely a year after it began, dying in an ambush on the furthest reaches of their territory and leaving the troop free from her influence. The siblings had proven themselves fearsome combatants to the other kingdoms, all of them strong, competent and well-equipped. While countless other peasant troops had died in droves, unremembered and uncelebrated, Scoria’s group had managed to secure recognition from the Mud Kingdom at large. And this reputation was not limited to solely their native kingdom. Their enemies were hard-pressed to deny them some form of begrudging respect - the troop preferred to take prisoners rather than lives, frequented neutral spaces across the continent, and had stood in the defense of non-combatants on innumerable occasions. Of course, the fear of dying - of leaving their siblings to grieve - was one that every member of the troop was all too familiar with. A resolution to the war remained painfully out of reach, taunting them. Some days, it seemed like it would never end, not until every dragon on the continent was dead. The war... ended eventually, but far too late. The neutral, intertribal town of Caslocke had been razed in a battle between the Skywings and the IceWings. Though their immediate commanders didn’t want them to interfere, aiding non-belligerents was encouraged by MudWing war conventions. Scoria’s group unanimously decided to help. A family of IceWing civilians had been displaced by the conflict, and the siblings promised without a second thought to assist the refugees. The family wished to go back home, where they’d be safe from the war, and Scoria promised to protect them until they reached the borders of the Ice Kingdom. The MudWings had heard rumours that powerful magic guarded the edges of the ice dragons’ territory, and decided that outright crossing the border was a bad idea. The journey went without issue. A quick explanation of the situation turned most soldiers away, while a show of force was all that was necessary to get bandits and marauders scrambling. It was when they finally made it to their destination, when it all should have been over, that disaster struck. Without warning, the empty night sky was filled with arrows and spears, raining down on the travellers. Without hesitation, Scoria and his siblings shielded the family with their own bodies. The rain of sharp steel stopped, after what felt like an eternity. Scoria was large, his scales thick and his constitution infallible. He would live. Pained and tired, he sat down on his haunches and surveyed the situation. The family was fine, if not terrified. Scoria then turned to look at the ground around him, only to see blood-stained snow and the lifeless bodies of all his remaining siblings. Many dragons were running towards them now. Feet pitter-pattering on the snow. The hollered voices of soldiers, trying to make themselves heard over the screaming wind. “I thought they were attacking you!” shouted a weaselly voice near the front of the pack. A young, stupid soldier had cried wolf. Scoria had just lost his family to a misunderstanding. The family explained their situation, that they were displaced and that the MudWings had been their protectors. An older soldier, huffing and angry, promised that the younger soldier would be punished for their faulty call. Noticing the one surviving MudWing, he turned to him and apologized, curtly and briefly. Scoria barely heard him. He simply left, his blood boiling. He managed to growl out a single request, that his siblings be buried respectfully, before he turned and began to walk away. The winter winds buffeted him relentlessly, but Scoria barely noticed as he marched back towards warmer lands. His arrow-wounds were numb, his limbs were numb, his mind was numb. The old soldier looked at the shrinking MudWing, and allowed himself to feel a pang of sympathy, despite the war that raged between their tribes. He wished the MudWing a safe return trip under his breath, not knowing that Scoria would never go home again. ---- Unsibbed. Scoria was an unsib now, and he had never felt this alone. He could’ve found a new troop without much difficulty, not many would turn down the kinship of someone as renowned as him. But the MudWing knew that family was something that couldn’t ever be replaced, not really. They’d lost. They’d failed. His siblings would never get to see the world of peace and healing that they so longed for. The MudWing wandered for a few months, lost and aimless on the tundra. It was one fateful day, when an IceWing squadron flew over him, that he remembered what he was supposed to be doing. They were rushing to join a campaign near the Mud Kingdom. His kingdom. They were excited, starved for MudWing blood. His blood. Scoria leapt up at them from nowhere, teeth bared and claws slashing. He killed them all, brutally and efficiently, and helped himself to some of their supplies before retreating into the unknown. “The Butcher-Knight”, as he would eventually come to be called, would sporadically slaughter IceWing patrols and war-groups as they left the safety of their Kingdom. One particular encounter pitted him against a heavily armoured IceWing noble. Unarmed and unable to harm the IceWing, Scoria pulled the warrior’s own pollaxe from his grasp and used it to slay him. He kept the weapon, and with time the blood-soaked polearm would become inseparable from the legend of the Butcher-Knight. |-| 4. Corpsefire = Scoria was tired and wounded. He had been for five years. His one-dragon campaign against the IceWing army had taken a toll on him. The adrenaline had run dry, his hatred was spent, and he was aging in both body and spirit. And so, he left the tundras where he had wasted so many years of his life. Making his way to the Sky Kingdom, Scoria found himself in a charred valley, the corpses of SkyWings, MudWings and IceWings strewn about haphazardly - the site of a battle. Scoria’s wounds were more serious than he thought, and were further exaggerated by his journey. He slept there on the fire-warmed earth, and didn’t wake up for a long time. When Scoria woke up, it was to rot and darkness. He was buried under something, something that smelled awful. A few streaks of light poked through the pile of… bodies? He turned over the IceWing buried next to him and stared into her dead, empty eyes, shocked and disturbed. The MudWing closed his eyes and shut his mouth, intending to drift off back into sleep. Maybe it would be for the best if his story ended there, surrounded by others who had killed and been killed for the war. For a moment, he truly wished to die. At least, until he smelled fire. They were burning the bodies. The pile felt horribly uncomfortable, the heat biting into Scoria’s scales. The bodies seemed to be getting closer to him, surrounding him on all sides. He was being crushed and suffocated. He felt as if he was being buried alive, as if the very earth was consuming him. Was this what death felt like? Was this how that noble felt? How those IceWings felt? How his siblings felt? With a roar, Scoria broke free from the pile, sending bodies flying. The SkyWing who had been burning the pile raised a brow at him, her face one of mild surprise and irritancy. He apologized quickly and awkwardly, before asking if she could deliver a message to his commander tendering his resignation. She was visibly confused at this turn of events, but agreed to help nonetheless. He couldn’t go back to the war. Of course, that meant he couldn’t go back home. But he couldn’t stay here, where the war would find him without much hassle. He needed to go somewhere where the war would not dare follow. Somewhere that would give him... possibilities. |-| 5. Alive Again= Following the directions given to him by the SkyWing, Scoria made his way to the large, bustling town of Possibility. He had been intercepted on the way there by a MudWing courier, delivering a small satchel of gold coins, compensation for his services during the war. Not much, but enough to procure a home and pay for his necessities until he came across a job. Unfortunately, it seemed like nobody was willing to hire a someone who was so clearly a soldier by trade. The dragons in Possibility didn’t like to be reminded of the war. He felt out of place in the peaceful town, a little bit guilty even, and wondered if his presence was somehow disturbing the tranquility enjoyed by its denizens. Scoria was sympathetic - he also needed to shift his mind from the war. He took up a few hobbies: painting, writing, and gardening. But it was only with the latter that he really grew in skill and competency. He now understood how fragile life was, and how much care had to be taken to maintain it. He curated a great garden, grew vegetables, fruits and flowers, and was eventually able to make a living selling them at the marketplace. But it was a few months after his arrival that he found his true calling, in the form of a towering, war-scarred SeaWing knocking on his door. Scoria at first wondered if he’d done something to offend the townsfolk, and they’d sent this large lad to confront him. In actuality, the sea dragon had come seeking guidance. He had also lost loved ones in the war and, admiring Scoria’s serene existence, had come to ask as to how he could heal. The MudWing poured him some tea, the ingredients of which he grew himself, and offered his visitor some food. Then, the two old, tired dragons just talked for a few hours. Scoria explained himself to the distraught soldier, and inquired into the sea dragon’s thoughts and life. He gave advice and parables, and guidance that his guest so desperately sought. The experience proved cathartic and revelatory, for both of them. The SeaWing, invigorated by the conversation, stood up and left with a few hushed words of gratitude. His name was Requin. He would become a quick-pawed tailor, a masterful storyteller, a talented fisher. He would become Scoria’s best friend, and eventually something more. Requin’s word travelled fast. Scoria would often find those wounded by the war - old and young, soldiers and civilians - at his doorstep. And he would help them, because there was nothing else he’d rather be doing. And life wasn’t perfect, for it would never be perfect ever again. But it would be peaceful. It would be good. Category:Characters Category:LGBT+ Category:MudWings Category:Males Category:Occupation (Artist) Category:Occupation (Writer) Category:Content (Soi-ke)